


The Riff

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eating Disorders, Episode: s12e10 Dennis' Double Life, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "He sneaks into Brian’s room and stares at the little alien he created with a complete stranger. He runs his fingers through Brian’s soft blond hair. He almost smiles and almost cries. He collapses on a creaky bed in Mandy’s spare bedroom. He puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling and thinks of nothing. He doesn’t fall asleep.It’s easy. It’s easy."





	The Riff

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to feel about this, but yeah... 
> 
> Lyrics and story title are from Dave Matthews Band's song "The Riff."

_Funny how time slips away_  
_Looking at the cracks creeping across my face_  
_I remember the little kid living in here_  
_He’ll be living in here probably until I’m dead_  
_Please don’t leave me, baby_  
_Please don’t leave me yet..._

It’s easy.

He packs a single suitcase filed only with necessities; he can restock on other things later. He takes a cab to the airport. He buys a one-way ticket to Bismarck. He slams 5-Hour Energies and chews spearmint gum on the flight. He greets Mandy near his unloading gate. He hops in her passenger seat and travels to her house – a quaint little shack in the middle of Goddamn nowhere – with his nerves jittering, muscles quivering, bottom lip trembling. He meets Mandy’s mom, Christina or Christine or some shit, unexpectedly because she was watching Brian while Mandy picked him up. He exchanges fake, monotone pleasantries, promising to be more polite when his mind is not so absolutely fried. He sneaks into Brian’s room and stares at the little alien he created with a complete stranger. He runs his fingers through Brian’s soft blond hair. He almost smiles and almost cries. He collapses on a creaky bed in Mandy’s spare bedroom. He puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling and thinks of nothing. He doesn’t fall asleep.

It’s easy. It’s easy.

**Day 2 (March 10, 2017)**

He cradles Brian – his son – in his arms. The kid looks at him with bright, handsome blue eyes, and Dennis immediately knows Brian got that from him. Brian hides his face in Dennis’ neck, apparently already warmed up enough to trust a man he doesn’t really know; Dennis likes that about him. Brian doesn’t judge and just keeps on being a kid despite not knowing his dad for the first year of his life. He smells like baby powder and clean laundry and hope. Brian falls asleep, parted lips pressed against Dennis’ skin as Dennis rubs his Winnie the Pooh onesie clad back.

Dennis plants a kiss in Brian’s hair. It feels perfect.

“How’re we gonna do this?” Dennis asks softly, softer than he’s ever spoken to anyone in ages.

Mandy sips her coffee. “Well, you know, I was thinking that you could stay here for a bit. Not permanently, but for a while until you find a job and a place to live.”

“That’s it?”

Mandy eyes him. “What more do you want there to be?”

Dennis shrugs and breaks eye contact. “Nothing. That sounds good.”

Simple. Easy. He can do this.

**Day 9 (March 17, 2017)**

The routine establishes itself quickly.

Mandy goes to work at 7:30. Dennis watches Brian while she’s there. He makes Mickey Mouse pancakes or scrambled eggs or French toast for Brian, cutting the food into tiny pieces because he isn’t sure how much 18 month olds can ingest at once and doesn’t want him to choke. He plays hide and seek and tag and lets Brian zoom racecars across his skin. Brian takes a nap before lunch; most of the time, he falls asleep on Dennis’ chest, sucking his thumb and entwined in a blanket. Dennis makes a lunch that he doesn’t eat but Brian munches happily on. They play again. Brian takes another nap. Dennis prepares dinner and is usually at least halfway done when Mandy arrives at 5:00. She kisses Brian’s cheeks dozens of times and talks to Dennis about her day, his day, Brian’s day.

But there’s this gaping hole in Dennis’ chest. His God Hole. It aches with the fury of a thousand winds, transcending illusion and life and hope. He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. He hasn’t heard from anyone in the gang, not even Mac. But he pushes it deep down in his chest until his heart feels like it’s sitting on top of his gut. Pressure. An abundance of pressure. He’s responsible for a life besides his own now. He has to provide and care for Brian. He tries not to be bitter about it, but, sometimes, it’s so overwhelming he screams into his pillow at night. He doesn’t think he wants this kid, and it hurts. He doesn’t want to be a fucking screw up of a father.

So he tries extra hard and hopes for the best.

“I have my second interview tomorrow at nine,” Dennis says while Mandy twirls spaghetti on her fork and while Brian sloshes his hands around in red sauce on his highchair tray. Dennis pokes at the meatballs. “Your mom’s still coming to watch Brian, right?”

Mandy nods. “You betcha.”

Later that night, after Brian and Mandy go to bed, Dennis buries himself under the tacky, flowery comforter with a bottle of vodka to numb his worries.

**Day 11 (March 19, 2017)**

He gets the job.

It’s neither a special nor important gig. He works from 7:00 PM to 3:00 AM at a 24-hour department store so he can be with Brian during the day, and Mandy can watch him at night. He stocks shelves and zones merchandise, but he usually mans the smoke shop register, which just means he’s stuck with ringing out the annoying ass customers while his coworkers mosey and meander around like Goddamn savage little idiots. He hates it, but it gets him away from Brian and Mandy, so it may or may not be worth it. He can’t tell. Everything blurs together anyway.

By the time he gets back to Mandy’s, it’s 3:35 because, seriously, they live in the middle of nowhere. His eyes refuse to close, though. His heart races even though there’s nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong. Fuck. Except that he thinks he doesn’t belong here and that Mandy and Brian both will get sick of him soon enough. He imagines the gang sulking over his absence, but the logical part of him – a part of him that has grown more prominent since Mac made him start taking his meds daily months ago – knows they’re doing fine without him. That’s why they haven’t called or texted. They don’t need him. They never have.

Dennis crawls into bed. Brian starts crying moments later. Mandy gets up. He listens to soft, gentle coos and whispers. He listens to her comfort Brian with such ease that it makes him want to throw up. He clutches a pillow to his chest and bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds a little. The taste of iron fills up his veins, hollowing him from the inside out. He can’t. He can’t do this. He isn’t meant to do anything of this magnitude.

Long after Brian stops blubbering and Mandy stops comforting, Dennis tiptoes out to the porch with a pack of cigarettes and without shoes or a coat. He watches the sunrise, inhaling and exhaling smoke while taking in the oranges and pinks and yellows. He lets the late March air bleed into his skin. He sinks into the concrete of Mandy’s steps. He tries to clear his mind because he’s thinking and feeling and missing and hoping and drowning and wishing.

He doesn’t want to feel.

**Day 17 (March 25, 2017)**

So he doesn’t feel anymore.

Dennis stopped taking his meds five days ago.

He’s not going to lie; he doesn’t feel all that great. But those are physical symptoms instead of mental, so he’ll take what he can get.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Mandy asks as she shoulders her purse. Brian plays with oversized blocks on the carpet in front of the TV. “I could call my mom. She could take Brian Jr. for the day so you can get some rest.”

Dennis shakes his head even though every fiber in his body wants to chuck the kid out the window for whatever reason. He loves Brian, but he screams and whines and poops and makes messes, and his high-pitched baby voice grates his ears. He’s a shit dad; he already knows that. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine,” he says, shaking hard because anger bubbles under the surface, and it’s almost like he fucking needs to scream right now too. “Like I said, it’s just a headache.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing Brian can catch?”

Dennis clenches his jaw. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The moment Mandy’s car vanishes from the driveway, Dennis curls in on himself, wrapping his body up like a burrito in a granny ass looking quilt. He watches Brian build a ‘tower’ and knock it down. He doesn’t know why, but it reminds him of Charlie.

“Dadda?” Brian squeaks.

He pinches the skin on his forearms beneath the blanket. His pulse quickens. “Yeah, Bri?”

“Sad?”

Dennis shakes his head. “I’m not sad.”

“Me up?” Brian asks, arms extended toward the couch with tiny hands squeezing open and shut.

Christ. He can’t do this. He can’t do this.

He can’t do this.

Dennis lets Brian lay with him. Brian falls asleep after half an episode of Paw Patrol. Dennis doesn’t sleep. 

**Day 31 (April 8, 2017)**

He hasn’t heard from anyone in the gang for an entire month. He stops checking his phone for messages from Mac or his sister or fucking Frank and stops looking for pictures from Charlie because the dude can’t text for shit. He’d throw the thing out if it weren’t for Mandy, who needs to get ahold of him about Brian sometimes. He should change his number, but something feels so painfully final about that, like he’s digging his own grave.

Whatever. Fuck them.

It’s Saturday. Mandy’s got the day off, and Dennis doesn’t work until the evening. She suggests they go out for lunch. Brian screams for McDonald’s, and Dennis flinches because, of course, he’s thinking about stupid fucking Mac and Mac’s stupid fucking name. She wants to make a whole thing of it, going to eat and stopping by the park and getting ice cream on the way home. Dennis goes along for the ride because he kind of has to.

When they get to McDonald’s, he uses the restroom. But he guesses he really doesn’t actually use the restroom because he’s sitting on the nasty ass floor with his knees tugged up to his chest, staring off into space. Space is vast and never ending, and it swallows Dennis completely. He floats. He gazes at the stars. He lets that uncontrollable sinking feeling take over until there’s a quick, punctuating series of knocks on the stall, and he snaps into his own body. Fake Dennis is a real upper, though, so he’s seething with anger by the time he stands up and exits the bathroom. It’s a fat fuck with a ponytail who probably needs to take a giant ass shit. He’s seething, face reddened and cheeks flushed when he sits down at their table.

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you a McChicken,” Mandy says, but Dennis just looks past her.

Outside, he sees a mother, father, and their two kids happily holding hands, and Dennis knows he can never have that. He sucks at it.

**Day 37 (April 14, 2017)**

It’s Mac’s birthday.

Forty.

Holy shit. Motherfucker. How the fuck is Mac forty?

Jesus Christ, how the fuck is he forty? Dennis doesn’t look forty, not even close to it. But Mac doesn’t look forty either. He has puppy dog eyes and an innocent smile. They’re getting so fucking old. It makes Dennis absolutely and totally queasy.

He stares at his phone. Really stares at it. Like it will change anything.

Dennis almost texts him ‘happy birthday, dude.’ He almost calls him. He almost tears up when he even thinks about the sound of Mac’s voice.

Instead, Dennis spends the day searching for apartments and making this hell hole even more of a reality.

**Day 54 (May 1, 2017)**

“Have you looked at anymore places?” Mandy asks.

Dennis doesn’t glance up from changing Brian’s shitty diaper. “No,” he answers shortly, honestly.

“You’re not gonna leave, are you?”

Dennis tosses the diaper in the trashcan. Brian wiggles his toes and giggles. “No.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”

He wants to slice open his veins. He wants to drive a car into a semi at 100 miles per hour. He wants to punch Mandy in the Goddamn face so hard all her teeth fall out.

“I’m sure,” he says.

“Would you tell me?” she asks. “You know, if something were wrong.”

Dennis pulls Brian’s toddler jeans up. “You’d be the first to know.”

**Day 76 (May 23, 2017)**

He wakes up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of his own vomit.

Mac.

Mac Mac Mac.

911.

He doesn’t... He doesn’t feel good. This isn’t right. Mac always helps him when he’s like this.

But Mac isn’t here.

Mac isn’t here.

Tears stream down his cheeks, and he pinches the bruised skin of his arms. More imperfections. More blemishes. More more more more more. He needs help. He needs Mac. He needs to stand up, clean himself off, and make sure Brian’s still, like, alive. But it’s been so long without Mac, his voice, his touch, his gestures, his stupidity, his reassurances, that Dennis isn’t sure he can live anymore. Days are nothing, and nights are even less.

Dennis quivers and shakes and throws up bile on the tile floor.

His eyes widen.

Mac.

He’s gone forever. He doesn’t want him. He means nothing to him.

Fuck. Why the fuck is he so stupid? Dennis clenches wads of his hair and screams until they turn into sobs.

He doesn’t... He doesn’t even know how long he’s been gone.

Dennis takes several deep, trembling breathes, trying desperately to maintain his grip on reality.

He manages to push himself off the floor. He pukes in the sink as soon as he’s standing. The room tilts and sways, and why the fuck is everything so spinny?

Mac.

But then he sees his razor.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking or why he’s thinking it.

Razor. Grabs it. Slices open his forearms. Etches creations of war and love and happiness on broken skin.

He cuts and bleeds until the world makes sense again. He remembers.

This is easy. It’s easy. This is easy.

**Day 89 (June 5, 2017)**

His new apartment is a shithole.

Fuck, he wouldn’t even consider it an apartment. It’s just a room with a full-sized bed, a kitchenette, a coffee table, a dresser, a small sofa, and a TV. The bathroom is beyond tiny, and the shower is even worse. It’s grimy and slimy, and Dennis spends his first night there cleaning the shit out of everything, even though he is understandably exhausted. He hauled all this shit up here himself; a stinky neighbor helped with the bed.

Dennis collapses on the mattress, feet bare and head aching. He rubs his forehead. He has to be at work in two hours. Fucking fuck. He fucking hates it here. He hates Mandy. He hates North Dakota. He hates Brian. He hates that they waltzed into his life and fucking uprooted the shit out of it. They should’ve left him alone. Don’t they know? Don’t they know he’s bad for them?

He guesses not because Brian worships him like he’s the Goddamn sun. He’s great; he already knows that. But Brian can’t grow up to be like him. Dennis drinks. Dennis smokes. Dennis cuts himself. Dennis doesn’t eat. Dennis can’t sleep. Dennis has countless flings. Sure, he hasn’t fucked anyone since he’s been here, but the people look and smell like shit. Fucking a cow would be more pleasant, probably. But Brian... He’s young. Innocent. Cute. He picks up on things ridiculously fast, and Dennis doesn’t want him to pick up on the fact that his dad’s so Goddamn awesome and perfect and broken and manipulative and tortured.

Dennis doesn’t want any of this.

He turns on the TV. He mindlessly watches the five o’clock news. But he doesn’t hear anything. He just stares, lying sideways with his stubbly cheek smushed into the blankets.

He doesn’t hear. He doesn’t see. He doesn’t pretend.

He doesn’t.

**Day 100 (June 16, 2017)**

“If it doesn’t scan, that means it’s free,” the old greying fuck at his register says. He’s smiling. Why the fuck’s he smiling? Who gave him the fucking right to smile, especially at him? He’s a golden god. He doesn’t need anyone to fucking smile at him because he already has everything he needs. And, honestly, Jesus Christ, that joke is so fucking stale.

Dennis taps his fingers on the counter and waits for the idiot to pay.

Apparently, the idiot has other ideas.

“No, seriously,” the dick says. “I heard that’s the new policy for these here places.”

Dennis stares blankly. “No.”

“No?”

He tries to control his breathing. He tries to stop clenching his fists so hard. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s literally surrounded by alcohol; he fucking needs a drink. It’s one in the Goddamn morning, and this fucking idiot bozo loser man is standing in front of him like a fucking moron wanting free shit? Dennis needs to go. He needs to get far away from here. He isn’t sure how much longer he can handle playing nice, exchanging pleasantries, pressing Goddamn buttons every two fucking seconds while he waits hand and foot on dumbass customers.

“Not a talkative fella, are ya?”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he yanks the $20 out of the dick’s hand and tries to give him the change.

“I wanna speak to your manager,” the dick says. “I heard about that policy. I wanna know if it’s true. Also, you’re very rude.”

Dennis’ eyes narrow. He bites his bottom lip so hard it actually fucking bleeds. Dennis throws the change at the dick’s face and is about to fucking strangle him and hide the body when his manager, Mike, shows up. Surprise surprise. Mike clasps him on the shoulder. Dennis almost jumps out of fucking skin. It burns. He doesn’t like it.

Later, when Dennis is clocking out, Mike stops him. Dennis almost throws up.

“Rough night, huh?”

Dennis blinks heavily and shoves the anger down in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Listen, uh, just so you know, that’s the third customer complaint I’ve gotten about you in a week.”

“And?”

“Aaand... I just thought I would let you know. You’ve been a good worker here, Dennis, for a couple months now. I guess, really, I’m just touching base. Everything alright at home?”

“Yeah,” he says with zero infliction in his voice because he knows he’s about to flip his Goddamn lid.

Mike stares at him. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I’m gonna let it go this time, okay? But this is your warning right here.”

Dennis nods. His heart wants to leap out of his chest. “Okay.”

“Get some rest tonight.”

Mike claps his shoulder again on the way out.

Dennis holes up in the employee bathroom. He hiccups and tugs at his hair. Tears soak into the collar of his polo. He’s a snotty fucking mess. But there’s still so much fucking rage pent up inside of him. He wants to fucking rip everyone to shreds, but he hasn’t been sleeping, and things are weird and blurry, and he can practically hear Brian’s screaming ringing in his ears from 25 miles away. He feels like he’s about to implode, and, honestly, it sounds fucking wonderful right now. He just needs to get away for a little while. That’s it.

He buys weed from a redheaded douche he works with before he goes home. He sloppily rolls a joint, frustration nibbling at his fingertips; Mac’s always been so much better at this than him. But then he stops thinking about Mac because fuck Mac. That fucking asshole. Dennis practically inhales the joint, but it doesn’t do much. It makes him spacey, and he is left with just enough energy to tug off his shoes and burrow beneath his blankets. He hides from the world under the covers, burning himself with his lighter because he can. It doesn’t hurt.

Nothing can hurt him anymore.

**Day 101 (June 17, 2017)**

“What happened to your hand?”

Dennis glances at Mandy before briefly looking at his bandaged fingers. “Cut myself unloading boxes at work. No big deal.”

He comes inside Mandy’s house and is immediately greeted by Brian, who hastily grabs a fistful of Dennis’ jeans and begs him to play dress up.

“Are you high?”

Dennis stares at her and then at Brian and then back at her. “What?”

“Are you high? You sure do look high.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You smell like a skunk, Dennis. Plus, your eyes are super bloodshot.”

“Um. Yeah. Yeah... I’m high.”

Paranoia slams into his chest, and he wants the room to swallow him alive.

Mandy’s eyes are sympathetic; that much Dennis can tell. “Work?”

“Yeah,” Dennis lies. “Sorry...”

“Oh, it’s okay. I get it. You’re stressed. It’s just pot, right?”

Dennis nods.

“I used to smoke a lot years ago. Quit once I found out I was pregnant with Brian. Just... I don’t care what you do in your free time, but can you not do it here?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

It’s an absolutely reasonable request. Dennis is a reasonable man.

Sometimes.

Apparently, he isn’t right now because he sort of accidentally punches a concrete wall in Mandy’s basement once Brian takes his nap.

He doesn’t feel it.

Gods don’t have to feel anything.

**Day 102 (June 18, 2017)**

He can’t bend his fingers.

But who the fuck cares, right? He came to the mother of his child’s house high yesterday. What a fucking idiot. And Mandy was so cool about it. It’s not like he was on crack or stoned beyond belief; he’d only smoked a single joint before arriving, and that was just so he wouldn’t freak out. Weed usually keeps him calm. But this fucking life combined with Mandy asking him not to fucking smoke weed around their child set him off, and now he can’t move his Goddamn hand without the feeling of a billion tiny knives jabbing into his skin.

It’s weird. His brain is super fucked up. His emotions are a wreck. But he can’t actually register that he feels anything other than physical pain.

He buttons his shirt single handedly. He slips on old pair of tennis shoes so he doesn’t have to fuck with laces. Every movement traces pain throughout his arm, lighting him on fire as he cusses to fill the silence overwhelming his mind. He doesn’t know if he can work like this, but he’s going to try. He doesn’t know or understand why he feels like he has to give a shit because the job is fucking horrible. But it isn’t just him he has to worry about anymore.

Dennis is struggling with styling his hair when his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Of course, he fixes his hair first because it’s a disaster zone, and he cannot let anyone at work see him looking so fucking unpresentable. They’ve come to expect to see him looking sharp and always at his best. It’s hard living up to these expectations.

Dennis unlocks his phone with the practically useless fingers of his left hand.

Today, 6:21 PM

 **Mac**  
_hey man. haven’t heard from u in a while. hope ur doing ok_

Fucking motherfucker.

It’s been three months.

Three Goddamn months.

And Mac has the fucking audacity to text him now? Right before he goes to work?

Fuck him. Fuck this.

Dennis drops the phone and listens to it clatter on the table. He sits down on the couch, hands resting limply in his lap.

His eyes glaze over instead of swelling with tears.

Dennis takes his time up in space. He floats and bobs around and wanders aimlessly.

He’s late for work that day, but Mike doesn’t make a big deal about it.

It’s not like any of this matters.

**Day 103 (June 19, 2017)**

Monday morning is filled with grey clouds and thunderstorms, with cold coffee and the ghost of Mac’s fingertips on his bicep, with despair and anguish and unaltered pain.

Dennis rolls out of bed with Mac’s text practically fucking tattooed on his forehead. He showers quickly, somehow managing to tug on jeans and a button up before bolting out the door. It’s 7:24 when he makes it to Mandy and Brian’s, sweat glistening in the humid rain.

“Jiminy Christmas, your hand!”

He ignores her. He toes off his shoes and sits on the floor with Brian. His son gives him a few blocks. Dennis starts to build a castle, his fortress of solitude.

“Dennis,” Mandy says. “What in the world happened to your hand?”

“Nothing,” he tells her flatly.

“That doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ It looks really sore.”

It is.

Dennis shrugs. He winces when Brian crawls into his lap. Dennis kisses his soft blond hair.

Mandy steps into Dennis’ view. God fucking dammit. He can’t. He can’t do this anymore. Mac’s text echoes in his mind, replaying over and over again, and he’s so fucking mad and happy and confused and wonders what Mac’s been up to for the last three months. Does he have a boyfriend now? Does he miss him? Does he ever even think about him anymore?

“I’m gonna call Sharon and see if she’ll cover my shift,” Mandy announces. “We need to go get that hand looked at.”

Dennis’ eyes narrow. “We?”

“Yes, ‘we.’ You’re too stubborn to do anything about it yourself, you know. We gotta look out for each other.”

Christ, it’s permanent.

This is permanent.

This is the rest of his life.

**Day 108 (June 24, 2017)**

_Sitting in a box away from the world out there_  
_A world piled high with boxes just like this_  
_But please don’t ever leave me alone in here_  
_Take me out, shake off the dust, shake off the fear_  
_Please don’t leave me, baby_  
_Please don’t leave me yet..._

Brian picks out a loud, irritating lime green cast for Dennis’ broken wrist. He giggles as Dennis’ arm is encased in plaster from knuckles to elbow.

It isn’t funny. Not even remotely. But he’ll do whatever to keep that kid from wailing his head off. Maybe he’ll break his bones more often.

“So I was thinking,” Mandy says as they leave the doctor’s office together – as a family. “Maybe you’d want to go see your friends?”

Dennis stops dead in his tracks in the boiling summer sun. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s just that I figured you miss them is all. You’ve got a week off work,” Mandy points out.

Dennis shrugs, eyes filling with idiotic tears behind his sunglasses.

He doesn’t miss them. He doesn’t miss any of them.

“My mom can watch Brian. It’s no trouble. You’ve been really great to Brian and even me the last few months. I know moving out here hasn’t been easy.”

It hasn’t been. And he hasn’t been great. He’s been fucking awful.

Dennis shrugs again but with less purpose, more casually to signify he’s done with this conversation. “It’s fine, Mandy.”

“You don’t miss your friends? Or your sister? Do you still talk to them?”

A single tear streams down his cheek because he’s a fucking baby. He struggles to control his pulse, his heartbeat, his rage, his sadness, his anger, his tears. He quickly pushes past Mandy and Brian, cradling his wrist to his chest as he hustles back to the car.

Mandy is quiet on the drive to Dennis’ apartment. Dennis stares out the window, cheek against the cool glass as he watches green trees and birds fly by.

“Take it easy, okay?” she says softly as she drops him off.

Dennis nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even glance at Brian. He doesn’t tell his son goodbye or that he loves him. He stalks up the steps and bolts to the bathroom – his sanctuary – the moment he’s inside. He grabs his razor and carves up the skin on his left forearm, gutting it like a pumpkin. It fucking sucks and is messy as shit because he can’t clutch on to shit with his hand like this, but he doesn’t care. The cuts aren’t deep. They don’t hurt. But, for the first time in days, Dennis can finally fucking breathe again. It’s cathartic.

He shouldn’t do this to himself, to his perfect body sculpted by the gods, but it helps. It fills up his God Hole, silences the noise drumming in his mind. It’s only temporary, but it’s enough for now. It helps him not feel so alone in a world he doesn’t even want to be in. So he slices and lets the razor do its thing without much thought because thinking can suck his dick.

He lets himself float away. He lets himself forget. He lets himself bleed. He lets himself cut open blemish after blemish, imperfection after imperfection.

It bleeds. It hypnotizes Dennis.

His trance doesn’t last long because, randomly, his heart starts thumping in his chest. It hurts. It fucking hurts so badly. There’s a lightning zap of panic racing up his spine. Shit. Fuck. Why? He covers his ears with crimson stained hands. His jeans are scratchy and sticky on his skin? Dennis pulls his hair and hunches in on himself, burying his face in his knees as tears stream down his flushed, overheated cheeks. He muffles his sobs the best he can.

He’s okay.

He’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay.

Dennis breathes in and out.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out.

In in in in in in in in in in in.

He’s scrawling out of his skin. He pulls his hair over and over again. His vision blurs. Breathe. Has to breathe. But all he gets are heavy, shallow breaths, like inhaling through a clogged straw.

He needs a cigarette. A bottle of whiskey. Some painkillers. Mac.

He needs Mac.

Dennis goes to stand up. He wavers unsteadily on his feet. His vision darkens dangerously. He ignores his reflection in the mirror. He’s dizzy. Sore. Thirsty.

None of that matters though.

Blood trails behind him on the floor, his wounds open and gushing as he stumbles to his phone. He drops on to his bed, inhaling sharply over and over again.

Today, 12:31 PM

_Hey_

That’s all he writes. That’s it. There’s nothing more.

He cries even harder when he sees the three dots lighting up the bottom of his screen.

 **Mac**  
_hey bro! hows it goin? ew miss u here._

_Everything is fine. Just thought I’d check in._

He doesn’t dare mention that he misses them too, especially and specifically Mac. Mac would get his rocks off just on that fact alone.

 **Mac**  
_whats up? hows dad life?_

_It’s fine. What’s going on with you?_

**Mac**  
_oh dude so much. i got a boyfriend!!! his names andy. hes a total beefcake._

Boyfriend?

Mac has a boyfriend?

This is supposed to make him feel better. Reaching out is supposed to help. But Dennis’ wrist hurts, and his eyes cloud with tears, and the gang’s moved on without him, and he’s miserable, and he wants to go home to Philly where things make sense.

_Congrats._

That’s all he writes. That’s all he can manage to write.

His phone vibrates again a few seconds later. Dennis chucks it at the wall and hopes it shatters into a million tiny unfixable pieces. He lies down and curls in on himself on top of his comforter. Blood and tears pool on the fabric. His brain feels fried, picked apart at the seams and utterly broken. He lets his mind drift away to a peaceful world where he’s happy.

If that’s even possible.

**Day 184 (September 8, 2017)**

“You’re late.”

Dennis doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say anything.

“You can’t keep showing up 15 minutes late, Dennis! My boss is already really irritated about this, and, geez, so am I.”

Brian tugs at his jeans. The kid turns two in a couple days. He’s different.

Mandy and Brian swirl in colorful collages in front of him. The universe blurs.

“Are you listening to me?”

He chuckles. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is right. He cradles his head in his hands and laughs.

“Dennis?”

“What, Mandy?” he shouts. “What the fuck you could possibly want? What? You want me to wipe your ass too? Want me to cut your hotdogs into tiny pieces only for you to throw them in my face? Is that what you want me to do?”

Mandy takes a step back. “What are you talking about, Dennis?”

“Oh, don’t fucking act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!” Dennis screams.

“Language!” Mandy warns.

Dennis flips her the bird. “I’m not a fuckin’ kid.”

Right on cue, Brian starts to cry big, fat tears. Dennis wants to punt him out the Goddamn door.

“What on earth has gotten into you lately?”

Dennis cackles again. The room sways. He doesn’t even register Brian reaching up at him before Dennis pushes him to the floor.

Crying screaming wailing too much it’s too much he swears to God he’s about to fucking snap just end things right here because he can’t take it anymore nothing is right everything is wrong this was supposed to be easy but he’s drowning and he’s dying and he can’t tell what day it is anymore because he’s too fucked up to even recognize what calendars are what phones are what a grocery list is how to function at work he hasn’t shaved his face in months and he doesn’t want to since his life is meaningless so there’s no use for perfection.

He bolts outside and doesn’t look back.

**Day 185 (September 9, 2017)**

Dennis curls into a tight ball on the couch, hiding his face in the cushion. His nose is stuffy, and he’s pretty sure his head is on the right track toward explosion. He can’t deal with consciousness anymore. It hurts too much. Breathing hurts. Blinking hurts. Everything hurts. He isn’t sure how much longer he can live in a universe as horrible as this one.

He pushed his son onto the ground yesterday because he was drunk and high and freaking out. Brian’s shrieks are etched into his broken skin. Awful. Terrible. Despicable. He’s a horrible fucking father, and he deserves to rot from the inside out for hurting Brian. The kid’s his son. That has to count for something, even though he knows that this – Mandy and Brian – are ruining his Goddamn life. He was okay before them. He was managing before them.

Mac always knew how to make things better when he was like this, and now he doesn’t have Mac or anyone anymore.

It’s empty and cold and broken.

He hasn’t heard from Mandy since the incident. He doesn’t care to either. He just hopes Brian is okay, like not traumatized or some shit.

Dennis rolls over until he’s on his back, yanking his phone out of his pocket and immediately clicking on his texts. He finds Mac’s name.

Wed, June 28, 5:11 PM

  
_i miss you den_

Thurs, July 13, 1:41 AM

  
_charlie totally ujst shit his pants bro it ws nasty_

1:49 AM

_I forgot ur probably 2 good 2 thinks thts funny now_

1:52 AM

_dennis_

1:55 AM

_atleast tell me ur alright_

3:14 AM

_fine fuck u_

Sat, July 29, 8:30 PM

  
_den no ones heard from u in months dud. r u ok? r u takin you meds?_

11:39 PM

_didnt think ud answr. just check in when u can_

11:40 PM

_we all miss u_

Tues, August 1, 6:22 PM

  
_andy broke up w me. he thinks im in love w u which is stupid bc u wont even talk 2 me anymore. whatever. hope ur good bro_

Wed, August 2, 4:09 AM

  
_what did i do wrong den? u left not me. why r u mad at me?_

4:15 AM

_pls talk 2 me_

4:20 AM

_pls dennis_

4:49 AM

_ok im goin 2 bed. take ur meds. eat smthing. take care of urself._

Thurs, August 31, 9:36 AM

  
_i just wanted to check in and see how things are. hope ur ok._

Monday, September 4, 12:19 PM

  
_dude ur sisters such a bird. shes wearing ostrich socks 2day._  
_[picture attachment]_

12:21 PM

_btw charlie says hi_

Today, 11:11 AM

  
_[picture attachment]_  
_this is rusty. he’s our new guard cat. thought id send u a pic bc u love cats._

11:15 AM

_miss u den_

Dennis rereads those messages over and over again, like they’re the only things keeping him alive right now because, honestly, they probably are. He misses Mac. He misses Charlie. Fuck, he even misses Dee. Based off the two pictures he’s seen of the gang since he left, they seem happy. Way happier than they ever were when he was around.

They don’t need him. They don’t want him.

**Day 186 (September 10, 2017)**

Today’s Brian second birthday.

Mandy lets him come over and give him his presents. Dennis’ mind is fuzzy and groggy, even though he’s stone cold sober. Brian settles in his lap like nothing’s wrong, like nothing happened the other day, and it makes Dennis’ eyes well up. He wants to kiss Brian, to hold him close, to apologize profusely for hurting him, but he doesn’t because he can’t. Mandy’s watching him like a fucking hawk, and he definitely doesn’t want to overstep right now.

“You really scared me the other day, Dennis,” Mandy says quietly when Brian goes down for his afternoon nap. “I’ve... I’ve never seen you so angry. And you pushed Brian.”

Dennis nods, rubbing his stubble with numb fingertips. “I-I know. Mandy, I’m so sorry... I would never hurt Brian or you. I... I know I did, but I didn’t... I wasn’t in control like I am now.”

“What do you mean?”

He wants to tell her about the BPD. The manic-like depression. The crushing anxiety. The fact that his brain just simply doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.

But she’s already scared enough. Besides, it’s been six months since he moved here. He should’ve mentioned it by now if he was going to at all.

So he lies.

“I was high,” he says, “and drunk.”

Mandy frowns. She fiddles with her necklace. He tries not to let that irritate him. “I thought we talked about this.”

Dennis nods. “You’re right. We did. And I fucked up.”

“Yes, you definitely did. You coulda really hurt Brian, Dennis.”

He scratches the back of his neck. He feels sick. “I know.”

“Dennis, do you have anyone to talk to?”

His eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t validate that with a verbal response.

“You’ve been here a while now, and I never see you with anyone is all.”

North Dakota is beneath him. He wants to tell her that. But he doesn’t.

He shrugs instead.

“I think maybe you should try to reach out to people,” she says. “It’s hard enough being away from home. I don’t want you to be so isolated.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mandy,” Dennis tells her quietly.

“You’ve already given me plenty of reasons to worry,” she points out.

Calm. Stay calm.

Dennis shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’re right.”

She is right.

He worries himself too.

**Day 195 (September 19, 2017)**

Dennis decides to get back on the wagon. He’s been neglecting his duties to Brian and work and Mandy.

He starts by showing up on time to watch Brian until Mandy gets home. He makes sure Brian is fed and tired from a day of play and starts dinner before he leaves for work. He bites his tongue with customers and doesn’t scream until he’s safely in the confounds of his apartment. He doesn’t lose his cool, even though his emotions are scattered everywhere, and he’s constantly torn between wanting to kill himself or murder everyone around him.

It’s bad. Faking it only makes things worse.

Dennis watches Netflix and gets high when he isn’t with Brian or at work. He drinks too much and doesn’t eat enough. He pokes three notches in his belt with a screwdriver. The skin on his back, chest, and even his arms breaks out in hives, most likely from stress because he knows he’s this close to snapping, but he won’t let himself. He can’t. He can do all of this without Lithium or Mac. He can take his life into his own hands and at least attempt to make it better.

But making it better for others makes it worse for himself.

He burns himself with his lighter. He slices his forearms with a pocketknife. He throws up or cries or kicks things when he’s filled with rage. But he’s always better by the time Mandy or Brian or Mike or anyone else sees him again. He bandages his wounds. He covers up the smell of weed and alcohol with cologne and toothpaste.

Dennis does what he can, and it never is enough.

**Day 222 (October 16, 2017)**

_If you stay with me, that don’t mean we gotta stay the same_  
_If you stay with me, baby, you and me will change the game_  
_Well I don’t know the man that’s living in my head_  
_Til you reach down and bring the light back in_  
_No, I don’t know the man that’s living in my head..._

The flick of the lighter bounces off the walls. It echoes through the bathroom. It leaps and floats and stalks and browns out the silence combined with the stabbing in Dennis’ head. His skull throbs. His hands tremble. His heart aches. Nothing makes sense.

Nothing.

He’s nothing and no one and going nowhere, quickly, in life.

Dennis watches the flame burn his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. No. He can’t really feel anything right now. Instead, he sees a nasty, foreign, infected bubble pop up on what is supposed to be absolute perfection. Instead, he sees what he’ll always be; he’s a huge fucking screw up.

He can’t stand himself anymore.

Dennis moves the lighter, swirling it in burned fingers before etching the flame around the palm of his right hand. He moves in between his fingers and knuckles and just watches. He wishes his hand would burst into a blazing inferno, engulfing all of Dennis Reynolds. Dennis Reynolds is a shitty person. Dennis Reynolds sucks dick. Dennis Reynolds is unbelievably selfish.

Dennis Reynolds doesn’t deserve to be here anymore.

He doesn’t know when or why or how, but suddenly his pocketknife is in his hand, and he’s slashing up his bare thigh, desperately pleading with whoever will listen to make it stop. Make him feel something. Make him die. Make him a normal fucking person because he isn’t sure how much longer he can handle being himself anymore.

There’s blood spilling all over the tiled floor.

So much blood, yet Dennis doesn’t feel any of it.

He leans his head back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. He draws his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his shins. Doesn’t feel it.

Doesn’t feel it can’t feel doesn’t feel it can’t feel it doesn’t want to feel anymore.

His shirt is sticky with blood and lighter fluid. The frigid autumn air seeps into the room and lights up his core. Dennis lets tears flow freely down his cheeks, too whatever this is to wipe them away. Dennis hasn’t eaten or drank anything in three days and hasn’t slept in three times as many. He’s so fucking fucked up he doesn’t even know where he is most of the time.

He wants to call Mac, to beg him to rescue him from North Dakota hell, but his brain won’t let him.

Instead, Dennis remembers the echo of Mac’s lips on his.

His insides are on fire.

Dennis remembers Philadelphia. Remembers Dee and Charlie and Frank.

He remembers Mac, the one person in the universe who could make this – him – better.

**Day 231 (October 25, 2017)**

Dennis has another run in with the concrete wall in Mandy’s basement a week before Halloween.

He’s rummaging around in the storage bins while Brian wails his toddler head off upstairs, upset because his Captain America shield is nowhere to be found. Dennis absolutely does not get why the fucking thing’s important, but it doesn’t really matter why. He’ll find it as long as it gets Brian to shut up because he’s having one of those days where the world blurs, and repeated sounds grate his ears, and he’s three seconds away from snapping at Brian or Mandy or both.

But he can’t do that. He can’t lose control on them. That’s not fair. It’s not right.

He doesn’t care what’s fair or right, but Brian’s just a kid, still in diapers for Christ’s sake, and Mandy... Mandy’s nice and isn’t as awful as other people.

And he can totally do this without help. He’s lived in his body and mind without assistance for years. Of course, he had Mac from 16 until earlier this year, but who gives a fuck? Dennis is a grown ass man who can take care of himself. He tries to be more self-aware, more thoughtful when it comes to Brian and Mandy, but he knows it’s eating him alive, rotting his core, drowning him, weighing him down. Bricks lay heavy in his chest. He always feels sick.

It’s almost enough to make him confess what’s wrong to Mandy. Almost. But it isn’t.

Brian screams and cries some more, and Dennis finds the fucking shield buried in the seventh tote he rummages through, and he can hear Mandy consoling the brat from down here. Dennis tries. He really does. He tries to control the rage bubbling beneath his skin, lighting him on fire and casting an eerie, dark glow in the basement. Blood boils in his ears.

So he clenches his fist and slams it into the concrete wall.

It seemed reasonable at the time.

But then tears start flowing down his own cheeks. He drops Brian’s shield and sinks to the floor, cradling his hand near his heart. He isn’t alive. This isn’t real. Dennis Reynolds isn’t a real person. He doesn’t think he can do this anymore everything is too hard he misses Mac he misses the way he always would talk to him about nothing rubbing his back or playing with his hair when Dennis has a bad day he has bad days a lot sometimes maybe a little on purpose just so he can spend that extra time with Mac because he feels like he needs it or he’ll die.

“Dennis!” Mandy shouts. “Oh, geez! What happened?”

He doesn’t answer.

**Day 238 (November 1, 2017)**

He doesn’t get out of bed because he can’t get out of bed.

Mandy stops by his apartment with ginger ale and crackers. It reminds him so much of Mac. He misses Mac a lot. It’s been way too long since he’s talked to him, and way way way too fucking long since he’s physically seen him. Dennis and Mac used to be inseparable, and now they’re two totally different people, and Dennis isn’t sure it’s possible to get back what they lost.

“Feeling any better today?”

He tugs his comforter over his eyes, curling up in a ball and hiding away from the world out there. Mandy thinks he has the flu. Dennis thinks he has a broken heart; it hurts that much. But he also knows he hasn’t taken his meds in months, and he’s unstable and erratic, and he’s going to flip the fuck out if she hangs around any longer. He can feel it in his bones. He isn’t in the mood to even pretend he’s okay. His skin is hive city, a couple taking his left cheek hostage. Mandy could see them, but he covered them with makeup earlier. His head aches tremendously if he blinks. His stomach is hollow and empty and screaming and shattered.

“Have you taken your painkillers?”

Dennis stares at his once again casted wrist – the same one he broke months ago in this exact spot – and frowns. He picks at the plaster with the burned fingertips of his left hand. He’s tired. He wants to go to sleep.

Sleep is the only thing he looks forward to.

“You have to take care of yourself, Dennis,” Mandy says.

He hears Mac’s voice instead.

Mandy leaves, and Dennis sobs into his pillow. He ignores it when his phone buzzes.

He imagines it’s nothing good anyway.

Today, 6:17 PM

 **Mac**  
_i hate u i hope u never come back_

**Day 240 (November 3, 2017)**

_Remember how we used to kiss, baby_  
_Kiss like it was everything_  
_Remember how we used to love, baby_  
_Love like it was everything_  
_If you stay with me, I’ll follow you, and we can start again, baby_

There’s a shift on his mattress.

Dennis’ eyes groggily pop open before slipping shut once again. He doesn’t know what time it is, what day it is, or why the fuck it even matters. He knows it’s Mandy, probably checking in to see if he’ll be able to watch Brian once the weekend is over. But she isn’t talking, and that’s, like, what Mandy does. She fills the silence with stories and euphemisms and tales from a North Dakota life with her two year old son and the father of said two year old son.

It isn’t enough, just like nothing will ever be again.

Then there’s a hand on his blanketed back. Dennis flinches at the touch, rolling over and smushing his face into his pillow. He doesn’t want to be touched right now. He’s nasty and a little feverish, and he keeps breaking out in cold, miserable sweats.

He hasn’t fucked anyone since a couple days before he came here. He has no interest in fucking anyone any time soon, either.

That’s really how Dennis knows he’s broken. Done for. Obsolete. Nothing. No one.

“Hey, Den...” he hears, and no. No. No no no.

The voice is unmistakable. He knows that voice anywhere.

Great. Now he’s hallucinating. He swears he gets crazier as the minutes pass.

Dennis tugs the comforter away from his face with his one working hand, peering over the top like a kid inspecting for monsters.

“You’re not here,” he whispers to himself, shielding his eyes again. “You’re not here. You’re not here. You’re not here...”

But then he’s being cradled in warm, strong, familiar arms, and it’s everything. It’s absolutely fucking everything. He’s rocked back and forth like a fucking infant, but it doesn’t matter because, even though this isn’t real, he stares up at Mac’s face from his spot on Mac’s chest. He’s solid. He’s grounded. He’s everything Dennis isn’t.

“Dude...” he hears, and he knows that tone immediately. Worry. He’s worried.

Dennis tries to wipe his eyes, swollen with tears, but he can’t. Doesn’t. Isn’t in the mood to.

“I missed you.”

Dennis’ heart shatters into billions of unfixable pieces. He sobs into the open autumn air.

“I missed you...” he whimpers, clutching at Fake Mac’s leather jacket; it feels so real. But it isn’t. “I missed you...”


End file.
